Best Kept Secret
by write25
Summary: Sherlock wants to keep something a secret from Lestrade, while Lestrade and John keep their concerns a secret from him.


"Just let John look you over—I'll go put on water for tea." Lestrade squeezed Sherlock's shoulder gently and leaned in to kiss the younger man who sat on his bed, safely inside the shared Baker Street apartment.

The consulting detective offered a placating smile and murmured his begrudging assent, taking Lestrade's hand and bringing it to his own lips. "I promise to cooperate. Don't worry."

But as soon as Lestrade had left the room, Sherlock seemed to deflate, sinking into the pillows and closing his eyes. He didn't move as John fastened the blood pressure cuff around his arm, quickly taking his measurements and letting the air out. John took the earpieces of his stethoscope out of his ears.

"When did you last eat?"

"Sunday."

"Sleep?"

"Sunday."

"Drink?"

"Yesterday."

"What?"

"Coffee."

"Doesn't count."

"Monday, then."

"That's two days, Sherlock. You'll kill yourself." John took Sherlock's pulse, shaking his head. "You're lucky you fainted here and not out on a case. They'd keep you for psych evaluation if you went to hospital and told them this, at the very least."

Sherlock shrugged tiredly and didn't say anything, his eyes closed. John sighed and brushed some of Sherlock's hair off of his forehead, estimating his temperature with the back of his hand. The other's skin was too close to matching the white of the sheets, and his eyes were visibly sunken into darkened sockets, but his temperature was normal, so he wasn't doing too poorly.

When Lestrade started up the stairs, Sherlock sat up suddenly, using his arms for support as he shifted back to rest against the headboard. "Don't tell Greg about this."

"What—just so you can do it again? So you don't have one more person looking out for you?" John hissed, setting out myriad packets of tubing on the bedside table.

"He worries enough about me already."

John was about to reply when Lestrade stepped into the room, sitting on the bed and asking jokingly, "So how's he doing? Is he going to survive?"

With a forced smile, John nodded. When he spoke, he didn't mirror the DI's levity. "He'll be fine, but I'm giving him dextrose and fluids to bring his pressure back up."

"Shit, Sherlock." Lestrade's expression immediately became one of concern. He cupped Sherlock's cheek in his hand and looked at him intently before kissing him chastely on the lips. "How did this happen?"

"John thinks it's most likely a virus," Sherlock said, offering his best attempt at a reassuring smile. "I'll be fine, Greg. Really. Nothing to worry about."

John shot Sherlock a glare, but continued to prepare Sherlock's arm, fastening the tourniquet around his bicep and cleaning a patch of skin with iodine. He slipped the needle into the vein with effortless precision, fastened it with tape, and hooked the catheter to the tubing, which ran up to the makeshift IV-pole-bedpost. Gathering the bits of rubbish from the procedure, John stood and looked down at the two men on the bed. "I'll go finish making tea. Need anything else?"

Sherlock shook his head and shifted positions so that he was lying down again, and Lestrade fit himself in around the younger man, holding him close and smoothing his hair over with one hand. Before John left the room, Lestrade lifted his head and caught the doctor's eye, giving him a pointed look and then directing his look at Sherlock, who didn't react to the other's movement. John shook his head, and Lestrade mouthed his thanks, curling closer to Sherlock and pressing his lips to the back of his neck. The detective let out a low hum and took Lestrade's hand into his own and held it to his chest.

As per Lestrade's hushed request when he brought Sherlock up to the bedroom, John had searched Sherlock for any signs of a return of his prior drug use. Because he'd been sober when they met, John often forgot that Lestrade had been the one who had sat with Sherlock after accidental overdoses and through detoxification. Every unexplained physical symptom, every probable coincidence, was a possible indication that he was using again. They never discussed it, never drew attention to the fact that Sherlock ever had a problem, mainly out of fear that it would be enough to spark a relapse. Sherlock was right—Lestrade didn't need more things to worry about.


End file.
